By Mya Finau
Poetry is a car’s headlights shining by your window late at night.
Poetry is a sour strawberry, you can sugarcoat it or you can take it how it is.
Poetry is mid-September; soothing, sometimes rainy and anything can happen.
Poetry is Augustus Waters in the speeding ambulance pleading for his lover to recite him a poem before his untimely demise.
Poetry is The 1975 pouring through the car’s speakers while the streetlights reflect off the wet highway.